


Toll for the Brave

by CollarsAndCurses



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Body Modification, Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Feelings, Hermaphroditic Trolls, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pheromones, Piratestuck, Porn With Plot, Psionic Slavery, Sibling Bonding, Slurs, Xeno, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollarsAndCurses/pseuds/CollarsAndCurses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commodore Ampora finally succeeds in capturing his mutant pirate of a Kismesis, 'Captain' Karkat Vantas. Naturally, he is thrilled. However, nothing is quite as simple as it seems on the high seas, and this is a lesson the two Captains are going to learn the hard way, whether they want to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

> MOVED FROM SLAVETOMYKEYBOARD
> 
> I know the summary sucks shh don't worry I'll think of a better one. ((Or not)). ((Probably not)).
> 
> Also, the number of chapters is a rough estimation, so it might change.

You pour yourself a glass of wine, perching on the circular windowsill of your quarters just as the last of the sun’s light fades. The alcohol won’t be required to steel your nerves tonight, though. Quite the contrary, you’re happy to sacrifice your sharper reflexes for the pleasant giddiness of good liquor. Your foe will pose no threat to you, should everything go according to plan – which it will, because you scrutinised every last piece of your little setup down to the fibres of the ropes and grain of the wood. Ah, there he is, right on time. A silhouette skitters across a roof near the docks, feet moving quick as a rat and arms spread wide like a gull in flight. How ungainly. You take a sip of your drink and smile. The shadow disappears when he jumps onto a pile of crates, resurfacing a few moments later as he creeps towards where the ships are moored. Your ship, to be exact. You’ve doused all the lights and told your crew to wait below deck; he won’t suspect a thing, probably thinks you’re all getting drunk in the tavern. On any other night, you probably would be, but you’ve been trying to catch this little bastard for almost a sweep now, and since brute force and outright chasing him have yet to work, you’ve decided to beat him at his own game and play things stealthy.

He scales one of the cranes like a monkey, lacking only a tail to complete the illusion – although you’re sure it would not look out of place sprouting from his rear. You can’t wait to see him hang like the animal he is. You lose sight of him as he reaches the top, no doubt making a daring leap onto the mast, then to the crow’s nest where he’ll scale the ladder, sneak into your stores, and vanish before sunrise with as much of your food and alcohol as he can carry. You know his little routine all too well, from the dirty footprints he leaves on your varnished wood, or his finger marks over the sails. But this time will be different. You can’t hold back a grin as you count the seconds until he reaches the rope ladder, and when he does you let out a cackle of laughter at the yells and curses that escape him.

You spring to your feet, doing little to hide your glee as you practically skip out onto the deck. Several of your crew join you, both in approaching your captive and laughing at his misfortune. You find him hanging upside down as you anticipated – what, did you think you’d meant hang him to death? Perish the thought, it would be such a waste of a rival and, as much as you hate to admit it, a rather nice ass too – his leg tangled in the remains of the ladder, and arms flailing wildly for his cutlass where it lies on the floor. You kick it away, inciting a snarl of those blunt, herbivore’s teeth that he calls fangs.

“Karkat Vantas,” you muse, as if it hadn’t been a mere few weeks since your last encounter, “how nice of you to join us.”

You gesture for his hands to be bound as you take another sip of your wine. Mmm, booze always tastes better with a dash of victory.

“That’s _Captain_ Karkat Vantas, chumbucket.” He maintains his glare as Paluta weaves and knots around his wrists thrice with your sturdiest rope. He may be a blood mutant, but he’s stronger than most land dwellers on the lower end of the spectrum.

She looks to you after she’s done, and you nod. With a nod back, she pulls out a gag, fastening it around the pirate’s mouth before he can do so much as splutter a few syllables. Once he’s secured, you pull out your sword and slit the riggings holding him up. He lands at your feet with a satisfying thud, groaning as you drag him to his knees by the hair. If you weren’t holding him, he’d have probably keeled over, judging by the way his head is trying to droop. You prick your claws at the base of a nubby horn, and he hisses as best he can through the fabric. There, that’s woken him up.

“Vixren.” A young Olive stands to attention at your voice. “You know what to do with him.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Karkat is back to his senses by the time you release your hold on him, but Felina has no trouble tying his feet and then hauling him off to the cell you had specially prepared near your office. He growls loudly the entire way, and you wave him off with a flash of your teeth.

“Aren’t we going to turn him in, Sir?” Paluta asks.

You scoff, “A course not, that would ruin the fun, don’t you agree, Telost?”

She seems bemused, but doesn’t argue further. You down the last of your wine, then shove the glass into her hands and follow after your captive.

He raises an eyebrow when he spots you lingering in the doorway to his cell. You grin at him, and he looks away with an eye roll.

“Vix,” you tap the Olive girl on the shoulder, “give us a moment.”

Felina nods and then steps outside. So well behaved, you can’t fathom why Vriska ever wanted rid of her. You wait until the door is closed, then stroll into Karkat’s cell. His hands are still bound behind his back, teeth biting down on the gag, but as soon as you’re in range he slips a foot free of the ropes at his ankles, lashing out at your shin. Thankfully, your reflexes only get better after each meeting, so you easily dodge him, but the message didn’t go ignored.

You laugh mockingly, “You want to fight, do you?”

He growls, red eyes glaring as if they can set you alight. Then you dig your heel into his lower leg, and they’re squeezed shut as he lets out a muffled yelp.

“Looks like someone needs to get better at pickin’ their battles, or there’s gonna be one less pirate _scum_ makin’ his way ta Langosta next perigee.” You add pressure to emphasise the sentiment, and his eyes fly open with a mixture of pain and shock. For all his talk and bravado, Karkat has a truly terrible poker face. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know where to go lookin’ for all a you _pie’rita-has_?” His lip curls as you hiss the word in your native tongue, “You’re so naïve, it’s almost sweet”

You remove your foot, but it does nothing to relax his expression. You’re about to continue, taunt him with every dirty secret you know, maybe try out a few of your knives so you can rub his nose in the treacherous blood he spills. But what’s the point if you’ve disabled his best weapon?

“I’m goin’ to trust you to resist your natural state a bein’ a fuckin’ idiot,” you say, skirting around his legs to get within reach of the gag, “try not to chew your own tongue off.”

He’s shouting as soon as you get the cloth free of his teeth, “You pretentious, brinesucking taintchafe _prick_ , what in the fuck is _wrong_ with you? We’re already at the Goddamn port, what’s the point of wasting _my_ time by locking me up in – what even is this? Did you make a cell just for me? Right next to your office so you can be a magnanimous pervert whenever you like? I’d say I’m flattered, but that would imply I enjoy being in close proximity to you more than having my fingers chewed off by diseased squeakbeasts.”

Wow. You’re so almost impressed by his rant, that you let him keep going until he runs out of breath, resorting to just staring you down with renewed fire in his ruby oculars.

“Nice to see you too, love,” is your curt reply.

“Why am I in here? And how in the name of Alternia’s tits do you know about Langosta?”

You can see him pulling at his restraints, so you circle him to be sure his hands are still secured. You pretend to be thinking as you walk, and after stopping in front of him, you shrug.

“Fuck you,” he spits at your feet, “don’t give me that shit, or I’m gonna start telling people how you couldn’t navigate your head up your own waste chute.”

Damn, you were waiting for him to pull that card. You still curse yourself regularly for letting him find out that you quite honestly can’t navigate for shit. You’d assumed that you were going to kill him when he’d witnessed you asking Paluta to set a course for you, when he was bound and gagged in your office – and only pretending to be unconscious apparently. But then you fell pitch harder than a warship’s anchor and well, the rest is a sweep’s worth of history you’d rather not disclose.

“I followed you,” You tell him.

He frowns, “ _What_? When?”

“Last spring, I took a small crew out on a boat with blackened sails an’ snuck in undetected. You really should tighten up security on that place, who knows what might happen if say, my whole fleet, were to somehow find themselves within reach a the island’s shores?”

He bares his teeth, eyes narrowed, “You don’t have a fleet.”

“Oh but quite the contrary, I do,” you pull out your sword, and annoyingly he doesn’t flinch, “you see this inscription here? This is old-world sea dweller spoken by the Empress herself. I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand it though, so for the sake a the point I’m tryin’ to make, I’ll translate,” you move the blade closer until you’re sure he can’t focus on it, not that he’s even trying because he’s too busy glaring over the metal at you, “it means ‘ _lord of a thousand_ ’, or in your land drawl; Commodore, as in you’re sittin’ on my flagship but I have a dozen more waitin’ back home an’ their Captains all answer to yours truly.”

He scoffs, “Yeah well that’s absolutely fucking _fascinating_ , but I haven’t seen your so-called loyal fleet anywhere near these parts, and I’m not going to take your word for whatever fish-speak bullshit is carved into that sword. So you can cut the self-righteous crap and just tell me what you want, or I’m going to be out of here before sunrise and come back with my crew to take every last thing you have on his heap of chutewaste.”

“Charming,” you mutter, ignoring the look he gives you to carry on talking, “but as much as I would love to discuss the finer points of my very important agenda, I must forgo the conversation with _you_ to have it with someone who actually needs to know. I mean it though, when I’ve got some free time we can talk about whatever your rotten little blood pusher desires, but right now I’ve got a schedule to keep and you’ve got a futile escape to ponder.”

“I _will_ escape,” he snarls, “and when I do, I’ll make sure you go down with your ship.”

You can’t help a chuckle slipping out, “No you won’t, if you wanted to kill me you would have tripped me up an’ strangled me with that rope you’re holdin’ by now.”

It gives you a thrill to see your words shock him a second time. Does he really think you’re that stupid? You know he’s been working off his restraints whilst you’ve been talking, using his anger as a reason to move around, hide the jerk of his arm when he pulled a hand free. But, you also know that whilst he technically has the upper hand, with you standing over one of his legs and his limbs completely free, he’d never take advantage of it with the intent to kill. He was probably planning to grab you from behind when you turned to leave, tie your hands together and possibly knock you out on the cell door and leave you there. You’re not sure how he was planning to get any further than that though.

“I hate you.”

You know you’ve beaten him when he falls back on that.

“Feelin’s mutual, but alas I must go, ta ta.” You blow him a kiss and leave the cell, wishing you could look back and see the flush in his cheeks – but if you did that he’d think you cared, which you do, but obviously you don’t want _him_ to think that.

“Vix, our little pet’s slipped his leash, if you could tie him up again that would be absolutely grand – oh, and don’t forget the gag.” You tell Felina, being sure to speak loud enough that you know Karkat can still hear.

He doesn’t respond though, which is almost a shame.

“Of course, right away, Capt- I mean, Commodore Ampora.” She bows a little in apology.

You reward her with a pat on the shoulder, then head off to your meeting with the governor, in which you will surely be rewarded for your services. Preferably with money or a new medal, but you won’t turn away land or free supplies either. In spite of what some might say, you are going to keep Karkat and the information about Langosta to yourself though, you don’t want any of those bigwigs sticking their noses in your business. Not that any of them will notice, they’ll be too busy arguing over who has the biggest ship, or other wigglerish nonsense. Some might say it will be smooth sailing. You both cringe and smile at your own pun.

Finally, _something_ is going your way.


	2. Pitch Black Passion

Or perhaps _was_ going your way.

You set sail shortly after the meeting finished and dined with the crew before sunrise, congratulating them on a job well done with a few of the Governor’s more expensive bottles of port. You weren't going far, only to the next port so you could spend some of your reward before setting off again, and you made land still in the first hours of morning. As far as you were aware, Karkat had been in his cell all night, thinking about exactly how to explain to his crew why he had been absent for so long – with his deluded intentions of escape as prevalent as ever, of course. You’d double padlocked that cell, which has bars both vertically _and_ horizontally, and made sure to have your toughest blue blood on guard at all times.

Yet by some misguided act of the Gods, who clearly favour dirty little underdogs over nobility – or perhaps just wanted to make you personally suffer – when you go to check up on your prisoner in the early dawn, you find your guard unconscious on the floor and an empty cell with two open padlocks.

A deep breath quells the scream of rage building inside you, but it escapes in a growl when you spot a note taped to the wall. Right above an empty hook where your coat should be.

IF YOU WANT YOUR DUMBASS COAT BACK, COME AND FUCKING GET ME.

<3<

Your growl gets louder. How dare he even put that symbol on there when _he’s_ been the one skirting around discussing quadrants. Oh _now_ he wants to be your Kismesis, but only on his terms of-fucking-course. Because someone like him obviously has plenty of options and can pick and choose whenever he damn well pleases. He should feel grateful that you’re even _considering_ letting him into one of your quadrants. You’re just about to screw the paper up, when you spot something on the back.

P.S. YOUR DESK MAKES A REALLY SHITTY CHAIR, HURRY UP BEFORE MY ASS GOES NUMB.

Did he _come back_ and add that after he got bored of waiting? Dirt scrapin’ little motherfucker, you only bought that desk last week and it cost you a whole three perigee’s worth of hard earned money, money that you did not willingly hand over just to have him misuse it as a perch for his hind end. You tear the note to pieces and step back over the unconscious blue blood towards your office.

He is indeed on your desk when you open the door, wearing your jacket and… Nothing else apparently. He’s left the top few buttons undone so that it hangs off one shoulder, and as you make eye contact he crosses one leg over the other, leaning back with a smirk and showing that yep – nothing down there either. Just his smooth, silvery skin, marked with red freckles like blood splatters and the fading scratches you gave him last time. Okay, so you’d kind of forgotten – deliberately ignored – how the way he fills out his pants always makes you want to get in them. Except now, because he’s not wearing pants. Or underwear. Or anything except your coat and… Yeah. Wow. Heat rises in your cheeks, licking at your fins as Karkat’s own face tints with a dusting of red.

“Enjoying the view?” He leans back a little further, shrugging off the other shoulder of your coat until it’s pooled around his waist and elbows.

For a split second, you’re furious, because that mutant freak has gotten his disgusting pink on the silk lining of your jacket, probably on your desk too, and both will most definitely stain and be very obvious to anyone who sees. Then the scent hits you like a gunshot as you realise where that pink is coming from, and suddenly you forget why you even cared about anything else.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, uncrossing his legs but still keeping them pressed together, “Not turning into a fucking prude on me, are you?”

You flush deeper, no doubt sporting a rather impressive shade of purple that completely nullifies any attempts at not looking desperate. But you try anyway – you’re not just going to flush your pride down the toilet. Yet. You stride towards him, head held high, and lean over him with your hands on the desk either side of his thighs. Your faces are still some ways apart, but you can’t tell if it’s his radiant heat or your own blush that’s prickling your skin.

You smile, “We really must stop meeting like this, people will begin to talk.”

“Talk, you say?” He cocks his head, feigning the innocence that suits him frustratingly well. “About what? I’m just a lowly pirate, clearly not worth the time of a Highblood other than to get what I deserve.” He sits up level with your jaw, so close that you can feel his breath on your skin. “And that, is for you to know, isn’t it, Commodore Ampora?”

“Hmm, I wonder,” you run your hands thoughtfully up his calves, passing the bruise forming in the shape of your boot’s heel, then grab him behind the knees and pull his body flush against yours, “what _do_ you deserve?”

His breathing hitches, picking up into a shallow pant as he gives a small roll of his hips. He’s hot and damp against the front of your pants, and you hope he doesn’t notice that you’re halfway to helping him ruin them. Or maybe you want him to notice. You can never really decide.

“Look, why don’t we skip the foreplay talkie-talkie shit today,” he says, all breathy and gravelly in a way that does not help your situation, “I know you want to fuck me, you know I want you to fuck me, let’s just get on with it sometime before sunset, yeah?”

You can’t help a snort of laughter, “Hah, that’s the most reasonable thing I think I’ve ever heard come out a your mouth, Vantas.”

“ _Captain_ Vantas.” He reminds you in a growl.

“Oh shut up,” you snap, “you’re prisoner to the Imperial Navy without ship nor crew in sight, hilariously outnumbered, and at my mercy, all because of your own stupid greed. Half of my swabbies would be better suited to the role a Captain than you.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you turn his words into a gasp with a well-timed shift of your hips.

“Is that why you’re so desperate? Think some easy sex will get you in my good books? Stop me from handin’ you over?”

He scoffs, “ _Please_ , I could leave any time I damn well wanted, and if you want to see desperate you should look in a mirror, you’re a fucking mess.”

 _You’re_ a mess? He needs to take a look at himself; pressed back against your desk with his body on show, bulge flushed and squirming between his legs, face dyed the same awful red out to the tips of his ears. He’s a fuckin’ disgrace. And good Gods above do you love it.

You pull at one of the buttons on his – your – jacket, “At least I got the dignity ta keep myself clothed whilst conversin’, with my _own_ attires, might I add.” He may look good in your coat, but you’re still a little salty about the whole affair.

He gives you a dirty smirk, moving closer until your noses almost touch, “Then how about you shut your trap for once, and we solve both those problems?”

“Only if you’re the one to open it again.” Not your best line, you’ll admit, but when you’re whispering it in the way you know drives him crazy, Karkat doesn’t really seem to care.

He rarely starts out rough like you’d expect from a Kismesis; only if he’s in a bad mood or you’ve done a particularly stellar job of winding him up. But when he kisses you now, it’s all nips and tiny growls, his teeth barely grazing your lips. He’s teasing, gentle, the most frustrating thing a dearly despised pitchmate can be. But two can play at that game. You wrap one arm around his waist, up under the coat so you can feel how he shivers when you press your hand to his bare skin, the other braced on the desk as he pulls himself closer. His hands are fisted in your shirt, the fabric digging into the back of your neck as he gives it another yank. You growl at him and catch his lower lip between your teeth, but he just hums, a pleased, smooth noise, as if that’s what he wanted.

Then the hand you’re leaning on moves and just sort of keeps going. Karkat’s voice rises to a squeak, but you recover your sense in time to catch yourself and then him as the desk slides backwards. You hadn’t realised that he’d been slowly working his way to standing instead of sitting, but now he’s clinging to your shirt as his legs threaten to slip out from under him. You’re not faring much better; practically on tiptoes as you try to hold him up, and stop yourself from falling, and stop the desk from going any further away. You may have never made use of a desk like this before, but you’re pretty sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.

“Why didn't you bolt your fucking desk down?” Karkat’s voice is half anger, half recovering shock, “You're on a boat, asshat; it's going to move with every single wave you hit!”

“'Cause the bolts look fuckin' horrendous an' I pride myself on keepin' a pretty tight ship here, interior design wise.”

“Did you…” His pauses to glare as if you’ve sworn treason, “Did you just use a _pun_?”

“Maybe, so what?”

His eyes twitch narrower, “God I fucking hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah, w-what else is new-w?” Fuck’s sake, the stutter just _had_ to come out now didn’t it?

Karkat starts to laugh, so you let him drop a few inches to shut him up. His spine goes rigid under your hand, and you smirk. He grips your shirt with a glare as you pull him up and plop his ass back on the desk. Eugh, God, it actually makes a ‘plop’ sound too; no fuckin wonder he slipped off, he has absolutely no self-control or any sense of dignity. It’s appalling. Yet also very, very appealing. With both of you stable again, you lean in to kiss him, but he pushes you away.

“Dude, no, the same fucking thing is going to happen again, and I do not want to have my eulogy include the phrase, ‘died naked and horny from a fatal head injury incurred on the floor of Eridan Ampora’s ship.’”

“Fuckin’ _fine_.”

You brace your hands on the desk and give it a shove. Karkat lurches forwards with a yelp, making a point of giving you daggers until the desk is up against a wall.

“There, happy now?” You ask, hands on hips.

He folds his arms, face all thoughtful, then shrugs, “I guess.”

You sigh and prepare a comeback, but before you can voice it he wraps his legs around your waist, heels digging into your hip bones as he nudges you to come closer. Pointedly ignoring what he’s trying to draw your attention to, you grab his middle with both hands this time, stopping just short of your thorax touching his. It’s satisfying to see how frustrated he gets when his hips roll against nothing, bulge coiling on itself.

“Get your pants off before I kill you,” he snarls, with all the venom of an actual threat.

You just laugh – as if you’re not dying to obey him – and silence any retort by sealing his mouth shut with your fangs, then your lips as his growl melts into a moan. He finds bare skin above your collar, smiling with his teeth against your mouth as he scratches a line just under the first gill slit. You tense, but resist jerking away because a, that would do more damage and b, you’re not a guppy, instead repaying the favour with bites until he kisses you again.

There’s the tang of blood when you run your tongue along the seam of his lips, and everything’s so warm that you can’t tell if it’s yours or his. He leans against you to squirm out of your jacket, letting it drop to the floor. You don’t even care. Not when he opens his mouth for you and _whines_ , hands clawing at your hair, your shoulder, down across your chest. His nails are too blunt to shred fabric, but the way they graze like burns through your shirt is better. Better than what, you’re not sure of right now, all you know is that he feels so good and you want more, everything he has to offer, everything you can _take_.

He’s panting when you drag your tongue out of his mouth, hot puffs of breath that make your neck gills flutter as he moves down to rub his swollen lips across them. It’s quite the addiction, feeling his warmth in places few others get to touch. At the thought, a harsh throb of your pulse reminds you how much you _want_ him- _need_ him. All over you, _in_ you, _anything_. His bulge worms its way under your shirt, writhing sticky across your skin, and your hips twitch forwards even though you’re still fully clothed. That needs to not be a thing soon, you decide.

“Need help?” Karkat murmurs under your earfin, already hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pants.

You growl, but… You don’t exactly say no. And yet, he still pauses.

“Come now, _Eridan_ , you’ve got to ask nicely,” he coos your name as if he actually calls you by it more than twice a perigee.

“Oh fuck off.”

He chuckles, “Why? I thought you liked telling me what to do?”

“Just get on with it, Kar.” You mutter, more impatient than threatening, “Fuck’s sake, I thought you wanted ta skip all a this?” At least the double-yous have gotten themselves back in line, you suppose.

“Hmm, I did say that, didn’t I?” He replies, his voice low as he undoes your belt so slowly it must be deliberate, ‘cause you’ve certainly seen him work quicker than this before. “You’ll need to do the boots though, because if you think I’m going to break my back leaning over that far, then you really do have anchovies for grey matter.” He finishes with your belt and looks up expectantly.

“ _Fine,_ ” you grumble, reaching down to unbuckle your boots.

Wait, what’s that in the left one? Oh, your riding crop, how did that get in there? You hold it up, then toss it over your shoulder, not missing the way Karkat looks marginally disappointed as he watches it hit the wall. You’ll have to remember that for when you’ve got more patience.

Boots nudged under the desk, you pull off your belt to join them and then let Karkat get to work on your pants. It’s not that difficult – only three buttons for crying out loud – but he keeps ‘accidentally’ slipping and pushing his fingers against where your bulge squirms under the now rather damp fabric. It gives a shudder with each touch that makes you want to rip his fucking fingers off, and you’re about to threaten just that when he finally gives you sweet, sweet freedom.

You kick your pants off all the way, barely getting a hold on him before he’s wrapped around you like a frond-climber. He doesn’t bother getting your shirt off, and you silently agree with his decision – at least if anyone bursts in, you’ll look like the more civilised one, however slight of a difference it may be. What _isn’t_ a slight difference, is how even with your blood burning under your skin, Karkat is still like fire against you. It makes you gasp no matter how many times you feel it, and he always moans in agreement, kissing you hard as your bulge coils around his. He’s smaller than you, but thicker, and as much as you want to taunt him for it, he fills you up just right and it feels so good that you just, can’t.

He grinds his hips into yours with a whine that you can’t help but trill back at. Gods do you feel ridiculous making those noises at your Kismesis. But you and Kar, you’ve always been like this; licks between bites, chirrups sweetening your growls. It’s not what other people do, but nothing ever is with him. That’s just Karkat. Crabby, bullshitter, sappy, mutant Karkat who- who just – _ah_ – g-grabbed you. Okay, you guess you weren’t being quick enough. He gives your bulge a squeeze as he coaxes it between his fingers, and you hiss into his shoulder.

You’re pretty sure he’s got his eyes closed because it takes a bit of fumbling for him to get the angle right, but then you’re pushing into the wetness of his nook and you don’t give a _single fuck_ how you got here. All that matters are the hot sparks every time you move, and the way he lets out tiny chirps as you sink deeper. You curl your toes against the floor and Karkat’s do the same in your shirt, his legs trembling around you.

Then he reaches down again, mumbling “Don’t wanna m-make a mess, right?” as something fiery warm pushes between your thighs.

It’s borderline endearing how he always checks in with you beforehand.

“Right, t‘d be a fuckin’ trawesty,” you manage, relaxing your knees so you can spread your legs a little and _yes_ , oh _Gods_ _yes_.

Karkat takes a moment to adjust, leaning back almost against the wall and claws primed to anchor themselves to your shoulders. Then he squirms right up inside you until you’re hip to hip, and you can’t _believe_ most Kismesises don’t do it this way.

You know what you’re supposed to do, according to the ‘romance experts’ (con artists); you should pin him down, assert your dominance, make him give or take whatever you want. But that’s just so _wasteful_ , and anyone who says otherwise has clearly never experienced it. _It_ being the way your bulge pushes against his seedflap, making his whole body tense and squeeze whilst he does exactly the same to you, lighting up deep nerves you’d forgotten even existed.

You can sense Karkat’s ‘fuck me’ pheromones flooding the air, dancing across your skin and tingling wherever you touch. His nook tightens when you push against him, and another burst of scent makes you sigh in a moment of forgotten quadrants, unable to resist a deep sniff whilst nuzzling his collarbone.

“Don’t you go, red on me,” he’s already breathless, no doubt taking in far more of your own pheromones than he should be – he always gets himself worked up so quickly. “Pick up the fu-fucking pace.”

You chuckle as if your legs aren’t beginning to tremble, and bite a ring of pinpricks onto his neck. His head tips back, body arching towards you as he lets out a low, deep moan, the kind that’s almost primal, drives you to go faster, harder, make him beg, make him scream your name.

That’s always the prize; drawing your name from his lips in nothing but passion. It’s what you focus on as you grind against him, pulling his legs higher to make him hit your sweet spot.

“Don’t stop,” he pants, bent double so he can give you a sloppy, shaky kiss. “Oh _God_ , don’t- don’t stop.”

You snort, because he always says that and it’s ridiculous – you’d only stop if he asked – but then his bulge lashes at your shame globes and you think you’d do _anything_ he asked.

“Kar,” you give in first, “Kar– fuck, _please_.” You don’t even know what you’re asking for.

He nods and whimpers and it feels like your first time all over again.

When he chirps loud, you know he’s close. It’s like a built in warning system, and you chirp back because it’s damn near impossible to suppress. Trolls’ bodies usually synch up to some degree when they pail, but like this it’s almost as if you’re a single being. You can practically _feel_ his climax build alongside your own, coiling him tight like a spring, his gorgeous muscles tight and defined around your hips, around your bulge, rippling and pulling.

“Eridan,” he nearly sobs your name, his claws scratching a dull pain somewhere you don’t care about right now.

Something in the back of your pan says this is different than usual, that _he_ feels different, but you’re too busy to take notice, losing yourself in the way he gasps “ _yes_ ” and “ _more_ ”, then “ _harder_ ” and “ _fuck yes_ ” when you oblige.

Then his bulge goes taught and yours is dragged deeper inside him, and you let go of each other to brace yourselves on the desk as you twitch and shudder. Karkat doesn’t give a lot, just enough for a comfortable pool of warmth in your pelvis to replace the heat that floods out, but he takes everything you have with a moan of pure bliss, his nook pulsing and squeezing like it’s trying to get every last drop.

His hips stutter a final time and then he predictably turns to jelly, flopping back against the wall with his eyes closed, shaking and chest heaving as he breathes. You wait until your bulges sheath and then lower yourself clumsily to the floor. It’s been a while since he made you feel like this. You don’t think you could get back up if you tried – you might even be sore tomorrow. _Totally_ worth it though.

“Holy fuck,” Karkat breathes after God knows how long, “what the shit was _that_?”

“Sex,” you reply dryly, “thought you w-would a realised by now. Or are you just _that_ stupid?” You can’t even be bothered to care about the stutter.

“Oh shut your sass trap.” He sits up with a growl, “You know what I mean.”

“Well, I don’t see any buckets,” you say after a second of confusion, “so it damn well doesn’t deserve to be called pailin’ if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He frowns at you, then shakes his head. “Fine, _whatever_. Be a cryptic asshole, see if I care.” He winces as he gingerly gets to his feet.

You shrug and watch him stumble to your bathroom – which is really just a glorified cupboard with a wooden tub in it. Normally you’d fight him over who gets first dibs, but you can’t even find the energy to argue for it. Maybe Karkat has a point; everything about that did feel a little off. Not bad off, in fact it was probably one of the best lays you’ve had for a while, but just… _Off_.

You’ve managed to stand up by the time he emerges – fully dressed, too. He must have stowed his clothes in there beforehand, the crafty bastard. You absent-mindedly tug your shirt down.

“Hey, Kar-”

“ _What_?” He’s snappier than usual, and that’s _really_ saying something.

You clear your throat, “I was just gonna say, I get what you meant, about it feelin’ different an all.” You’re met with a silent stare, so you carry on. “But, it was good, right? I thought it was pretty good, pretty fuckin’ fantastic, actually, but– I mean. I didn’t–” God this is embarrassing. You swallow and prick your claws in the hem of your shirt. “I didn’t _hurt_ you, or anythin’? Did I?”

More staring, more silence. Fuck, you did. You went too far and now he doesn’t want to be your Kismesis anymore, not your anything, probably doesn’t even want to talk to you–

“No.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, you didn’t.”

It’s a struggle not to show how obviously relieved you are, but it doesn’t last long.

“Look, Eridan,” oh no, he’s using your first name, this is serious. And you can’t even run; you’re on your own bloody ship. “I’m going to leave, and if you have any shred of respect for me, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t follow.”

“Okay,” is the only thing you can say to that.

Yet even with your admittedly stunned permission, Karkat stands there for a few moments longer. Then he rolls his eyes and pads across the room.

“Stop being such a big wiggler,” he tugs on your collar, pulling you down for a kiss that ends with him biting your lip. “If you’d fucked up, you would most definitely know about it. Now stop giving me those obnoxious sad-eyes, or I might start to pity you.”

You blink a few times as Karkat walks away, trying to rearrange your face into something befitting of a Kismessitude. Karkat flips you off when you manage a scowl, and then he’s gone.

Your jacket still smells like him when you pick it up. Maybe you don’t need to burn it right away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((God I still find smut so hard to write please forgive me.))
> 
> Eyyy *finger guns* this took forever but here it is, chapter two, in which this fic earns it's little red E badge.


	3. Rose Gold Diamonds

Stepping back on shore always feels strange. Your legs wobble as if the lack of constant movement beneath your feet confuses them, and sometimes _not_ swaying on the spot is harder than just letting your body do whatever it wants. It doesn’t bother you – if someone wants to stare then that’s their own fucking useless waste of time and ocular energy – but when you start shifting from one foot to the other as you lean on the counter, Kankri shoots you a sharp glare that you feel boring into your temple before you even lock eyes with him. You keep moving regardless.

“What’s _that_ look for?” You ask, hoping he won’t answer. Thankfully, he just frowns, and it brings out your first smirk in nights. “Have you decided I’m the one responsible for the stick up your ass, or is it just particularly uncomfortable this evening?”

His cheeks puff out like a blowfish and you sort of regret teasing him on your first night back. “Well,” he begins, voice carrying that haughty tone that sets your hackles on edge. “I was going to discuss something with you in private, but since you have no remorse or decorum with using such vulgar language in public _and_ directed at your senior signmate, I shall spare you no such privileges.”

You snort – the back of an empty bar is hardly ‘public’ – but Kankri ignores you. He reaches into his satchel, pulling out a handful of papers and slapping them down on the table between you. You’re… pretty sure you already know what they say, but you pretend to glance over them anyway before giving a noncommittal shrug.

“You know what these are, Karkat,” Kankri says. “Now explain to me why I entered my office this evening to be presented with not one warrant for your arrest, but _five_.”

“I have no idea,” your poker face holds firm, even under Kankri’s glare.

“Well isn’t that interesting, because one of these happens to coincide with the night you crept off when you were supposed to be under hive arrest to visit Commodore Ampora-”

You interrupt with a groan, “Don’t use his title, it makes him sound important.”

“He _is_ important, whether you like it or not,” Kankri argues, gathering up the papers. “And you’re lucky to have a Kismesis in such a position because he has already pulled the appropriate strings, as people say, to pass void notices on every single one of these warrants.”

“Great, good for him, send a basket of fish or something on my behalf.”

“Karkat I don’t think you realise quite how serious this is. If any of these charges ever came to fruition, anyone who has ever helped you could lose their jobs, or worse. That includes me, Eridan, Sollux, Terezi – and not to mention that the rest of your crew would follow you to the gallows. You need to be careful, if not for your own sake, then for ours.”

“Kankri,” you look him right in the eyes, sincere as can be. “If I ever thought that any of you were in danger, I’d cut my losses, no questions asked. But believe it or not, I am good at what I do. If there was a warrant for every instance I’ve _not_ been caught, you wouldn’t even be able to open your office door without a tidal wave of official documents flooding every crevice in your hive.”

“ _Our_ hive,” he corrects. “I know you think otherwise, but it is still your home as much as mine. I would never change that.”

Your sigh drags a slight chirr with it. Kankri answers, just as softly, and it’s like being four sweeps again when he takes your hands, lacing your fingers together. It makes you take a few steps forwards, wanting to lose any tension in your arms. Kankri surprises you by going further, touching your foreheads together. It’s the ultimate sign of trust; both of you able to easily damage the other, but not without putting yourself at risk in the same way.

“I’ve missed you, Karkat,” he whispers, his breath tickling your nose. He smells like fennel tea.

You rub your thumbs across his knuckles, pushing back against him just a little. “I’ve missed you, too.”

No matter what either of you go through, how much he pisses you off or you get him into trouble, you don’t think you’ll ever stop caring about him. Probably a damn mutant thing, being all sappy like this – unless Eridan and Cronus have secret cuddles between their arguments. In other words, it’s highly likely to be a mutant thing.

When Kankri doesn’t move or let go after another ten seconds you start to worry. He’s _never_ this affectionate in public – again, you’re alone so it’s not public, but whatever – and wow he’s really holding your hands tightly, does he actually think you’re going to try and run away? Then he lets out one last discreet chirr and steps back, smoothing down his jacket.

For once, you can’t find it in you to be offended. Instead, you sort of hover awkwardly and return his fleeting smile when he looks back at you. Your hands feel oddly cold without his there.

“Aww, don’t stop on our account!”

Nepeta has vaulted herself over the bar before you can do so much as growl. She slings an arm over your shoulder even as you scowl at her, distracting you long enough for Terezi to grab you by the waist from the other side.

“Don’t look so mad, Karkles – I think it’s sweet.” She makes a kissy face at Kankri, cackling when he turns bright red.

With his painfully obvious crush on her signmate, Latula, you’re not sure if it’s anger or embarrassment that’s making him blush. The thought of either is enough to make you snort out a laugh, which gives Nepeta permission to burst out giggling. At least she showed _some_ restraint; you are her Captain, after all.

Kankri folds his arms, any hint of affection firmly locked behind that mask of authority. “I’ll see you at home, Karkat – if you get that far this time.” He lingers a moment longer, then turns sharply and leaves.

Shit, you should probably make an effort to spend at least one day at your familial hive before you set sail again. It’s been a while since you’ve seen Crabdad, you bet he’s missing you too, as much as a monstrous creature can miss the handler it picked up as a tiny squishy grub. And raised and protected and _loved_ , you guess, even if the old codger has a funny way of showing it sometimes.

“What’s pawing at your pan, Karkat?” In spite of the pun, Nepeta does seem genuinely worried, letting her arm drop to give you some space.

Terezi, on the other hand, just ruffles your hair, still chuckling in that squeaky way of hers. “He’s mad that we interrupted his little moment with Kanny – weren’t turning pale on him, were you? I know you’ve got some weird kinks but wanting to pap your signmate? Damn-”

“Oh shut your face gash, Pyrope,” you snap, batting at her hand. “We haven’t seen each other for perigees, give us a break.”

“And ‘Tula was out of the city for almost half a sweep with Pyralspite, you didn’t see us walking around holding hands and shit.”

“Then that’s a problem for your poor, stone cold pusher to bear, isn’t it?”

Her expression drops to a pensive frown. “I thought you hated Kankri? You’re always bitching about how much of an asshole he is, am I supposed to believe you’re all lovey dovey now just after some time apart?”

“ _God no_ , he’s just not that bad sometimes.” You shrug, wanting to change subject ASAP because your pan is way too confused about this to be discussing it. “It’s not like I’d want the guy gone, or anything.”

“Well, I miss Meulin when she goes away,” Nepeta adds, her hand wandering back up to rest on your arm. “And _we_ hold hands sometimes – purrhaps the mighty dragoness has let her scales get too thick, hmm?”

Terezi’s mouth splits into a grin, the predatory type where you realise just how sharp her teeth are for a Midblood. “Or maybe the huntress is losing her touch – what’ll it be next? Feeding fluffy hopbeasts in the meadows?”

They take a step closer to each other, hands on hips as if they’re eyeing their opponent up for a fight. You take your chance to get out of their range, glad that they’ve shifted their attention from you.

“We’ve got a few nights before we set sail again, right, Captain?” Nepeta looks to you and you nod. Then she turns back to Terezi. “So, Miss Dragon, why don’t we go on a hunt and see just who is the one losing her touch?”

“Oh, you are _on_.”

They’re practically nose-to-nose, before they break apart laughing and begin arranging a time. You know they’re just roleplaying and there’s nothing quadranted about it, but you can’t help thinking that if they ever turned black, the city would end up in ruins and you’d be running for your life in some sort of twisted competition between them. After all, you’ve been there with Terezi before so you know what Nepeta would be dealing with. It was fantastic, but damn was it a 24/7 job, especially that one time you agreed to bring roleplay over the pail – never a-fucking-gain, not even if Ampora begs you.

Sometimes you wonder why you and Terezi let things fizzle out the way they did. Then you remember the times when you weren’t black or red, but some fucked up in between where you couldn’t stand to be with each other but couldn’t bring yourselves to leave and yeah, you both made the right decision. It wasn’t even painful and she’s practically the same as she was before anyway, just with no sex and less kissing – it’s not like you have a Matesprit, so the occasional drunken smooch is acceptable by your standards.

You do, however, have a Moirail. The same one you’ve had since you were stumbling through that awkward sweep between six and seven, who, every time you come back ashore, greets you in the same infuriating yet familiar way. A tingle up your spine, into your hair and between your horns, the scent of a storm in the air. You’re pretty sure your head resembles a prickle-sphere right about now.

“I know you’re there, douche-prongs,” you growl at the source of your unwanted hairstyle. “Quit it with the sparks before I shove my sickle up your bony little ass and tie you to my ship as a lightning conductor.”

“Wow, KK,” Sollux teases. “If you keep thith up, Ampora’th going to get jealouth.”

He does as you say, though; dropping the static to drape his arms over your shoulders. The sharp angles of his body cover you like a tatty old cloak that you can’t bear to part with. He really needs to eat more without you here to remind him. At least he isn’t miserable, he even sounds – dare you say it? – _chipper_.

Then you turn to face him and that tiny ball of hope sinks right into your shoes like tar, leaving this hollow sickness in its wake.

There are fucking _wires_ sticking out of his neck. Two on either side and connected to something around his shoulders. It looks like riding gear, the type Equius has hanging all over his office, which would make you laugh if it wasn’t so horrifyingly similar to the shit they hook up a helmsman with.

“What the fuck are _those_?”

Sollux has the audacity to scowl as if your question is unreasonable, “You mean thethe?” He pulls at one of the wires and you wince as his skin tugs a little with it.

“No, Sollux, I mean your glasses – Of course I mean those!” You can’t see it, but you can tell he just rolled his eyes and oh, he is fucking asking for it now. “But, y’know, don’t worry about your Moirail having a goddamn panic attack because one of his worst nightmares is becoming reality before his very lookstubs, _no_ , you just get all uppity that he didn’t exactly take the news like a piece of fucking grubcake all laid out on a silver platter.”

“KK, can you for onthe _not_ flip your shit-”

“Shut up!” You can feel the reasonable part of you trying to hold the words back, but once you’re worked up like this they just spill out. “I am well within my rights to flip my shit about this, I’m going to flip _every piece of shit I physically can_ , because you _cannot_ just turn up looking halfway to a battery and expect me to be okay with that.”

“Look, jutht-”

He cuts himself off to sigh, in the way where you know he’s going to take off his glasses to drag a hand down his face, then lead you by the arm to a separate room before you can embarrass everyone present with an over-emotional outburst. Yet even when your prediction is accurate even down to which side of the bar he leads you past, it doesn’t stop you grumbling about it until he’s pulled you down onto a couch and pressed a thin finger to your lips.

“Shhhhh,” his lisp completely butchers the sound, as usual, but it’s the sentiment that counts.

You still snap at his hand when he moves it, and he fucking chuckles as if your pan isn’t at borderline crisis point.

“Explain,” you say through gritted teeth.

Remaining infuriatingly unfazed, Sollux leans back against the cushions, pulling you to his chest even whilst yours rumbles with a subdued growl.

“Firtht of all, I’m not becoming a battery, why would you even think that after I’ve thpent thweepth pretending to be the motht incompetent pthionic on the whole damn planet? I let thomeone throw a shoe at me for fuck’th thake!”

You grunt in acknowledgement but don’t reply.

“Thecond, and motht importantly, thethe aren’t even the thame ath the oneth the empire utheth – they don’t take my power they jutht cycle it out of my head, thtopth it building up too much and making me an obviouth target.”

Your growl comes to an abrupt stop and you wriggle to look at him. This close, you can see through his glasses; see the lack of a tired squint in his eyes, the way they’re flickering over your face instead of just staring like he’s thinking about something else.

“Do they stop the migraines? And the voices?”

“No, but the headacheth are leth often tho the voitheth are eathier to deal with.”

You let your gaze drift to the wires. They’re smaller than you originally though, only as thick as your little finger. The edges are neat where they meet the skin, no ragged cuts trying to heal, just a few simple stitches.

“Who even did this?” You ask, sitting up to follow the wires around the back of his neck. There’s a circular little, _thingy_ , there, some sort of disc above his shoulder blades, judging by the shapes standing out under his shirt.

Sollux fidgets and clears his throat. “Equiuth.”

“But he’s–”

“I know,” he cuts you off, cheeks gaining a rare yellow tint. “But that doethn’t mean he wanth me to thuffer – jutht look at you and ED; remember when you poured away all hith alcohol?”

You scoff. “That’s because he was going to be steering a ship that I happened to be on, and I didn’t want him ramming it into a reef and stranding us because he was off his pan fucking wasted.”

A few more of Sollux’s fangs join the ones already poking out as he smirks. “Then why did you thtay with him after getting back to shore?”

All you manage is a spluttered reply that has Sollux giggling, and smacking his arm only makes him laugh harder.

“Because my quadrants are disasters, that’s why,” you say eventually. “I can’t trust either of you to make your own decisions for two fucking minutes without everything going to shit, shit that I have to scoop up and launch into the ocean whilst you’re busy making more.”

Sollux composes himself and cocks an eyebrow. “ _Either_ of uth? Tho are you and Ampora official?”

You roll into the other corner of the couch before Sollux can see your reaction – see the way your pusher hurts so much that it draws every ounce of light from your face. Or at least, that’s how Kanaya described it, with her flowery words like there’s a poetry book stuck open in her pan.

You and Eridan have been ‘playing pitch’ as he calls it – most likely because he doesn’t want to date a mutant, even though his ego is so inflated that it’s a wonder he deigns to notice your presence, let alone your blood colour – for a sweep now. You thought it was just a given, that at the point you’ve gotten to you’d be his Kismesis, but he’s never said it and you’ve never said it and now you’re just plain too nervous to.

You even tried using the proper symbol for said quadrant, but still no confirmation, verbal or otherwise. It’s as if he only wants you when you’re there, or when it suits him, more likely. The latter wouldn’t surprise you, fucking stuck up prick.

Those thoughts get left behind when Sollux drags you back into his arms.

“Thorry,” he murmurs, rubbing his cheek into your hair.

You take a deep breath and sigh it out against his chest. It’s always jarring when you notice how fast his pusher is thrumming in your ear, but it never misses a single beat.

“It’s fine, Eridan can do whatever the fuck he likes; if he doesn’t want to restrict himself then neither will I.”

That’s an outright lie. Even if he banged someone else right in front of you and spat the nastiest pitch seductions he could at them, you’d probably just drink and cry and eat ice cream rather than get back in the dating game, as pathetic and un-captain-like as that sounds.

“Ith he cheating on you?” Sollux’s arms tense and you instinctively reach up to pap his cheek, getting a tingle of static for your troubles.

“No. I’m just saying that if he did, I wouldn’t care.”

More lies. You get a disbelieving hum in response, but under your papping Sollux doesn’t argue further. It’s for the best, really; Sollux has never been great at relationship advice. That’s more your forte, even if your own quadrants could do with some work.

Silence isn’t that awkward between good Moirails, but you can only go so long without speaking, especially with a thousand problems swirling in your pan. Thankfully for you, Sollux chooses to take a different conversational path.

“You can touch the wireth, if you like,” he says, nudging you gently upright. “They’re all healed, jutht need the thtitcheth out.”

He cocks his head to the side and sits dead still, neck exposed, as you summon the courage to do something other than stare. It’s truly sickening how much trust Sollux puts in you. How much trust he must have put in Zahhak when he fitted them? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

Your hand is trembling so much that you don’t trust _yourself_ not to yank something out, so you just run your knuckles over the nearest wire like you’re petting a nervous animal. It feels warm, and soft, like those grubs they breed to store electrical currents on war ships. Ships powered by other trolls like Sollux.

Maybe if you lingered on one part of the wire you’d feel his pulse… But you don’t really want to find out. Touching them makes this whole thing real enough – the fact that Sollux can’t live normally without being modified in _some_ way – and if you felt a part of him in there you might be sick. It frightens you to think of it that way, however minor this seems compared to what could have happened to him.

“So, uh,” you swallow down a wave of anxious nausea and draw your hand back. You can still feel the warmth there for a second or two. It’s weird. “Did it hurt?” You don’t really want to ask that question, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind.

Sollux just shrugs. “I gueth? I mean, Eq uthed thome of thothe tockthinth, the oneth that numb your thkin, then the offitherth came tho I thtayed in thopor for a night or two. I don’t remember much.”

Wait… Officers?

Your jaw tenses. No, be calm, Karkat. Calm. It might not be what you think. You let out a slow breath and manage to relax by maybe a couple of notches. At least it means you don’t growl when you talk.

“What do you mean _officers_?”

“Did Kankri not tell you?” Sollux won’t look at you. He knows Kankri didn’t say anything, he’s just trying to pass off the responsibility of informing you of what’s going on in your own damn hometown and to your own damn Moirail.

“Don’t bullshit me, Sollux.” You put your hands between his horns, tilting his head so he has to face you, then repeat your question as if you’re talking to a wiggler. Sometimes with Sollux you can’t tell the difference. “What. Do you mean. _Officers_?”

He makes a few noncommittal shrugs and hand gestures, then a whiny “eeehhhh” sound that he uses in place of words sometimes when he’s caught off guard, before finally locating his repertoire of adult communicational skills.

“Jutht, y’know, the oneth from the capital; they come looking for pothible recruith who thlipped under the radar when they were shipping off the latht batch of thorry empire thlaveth,” another fucking shrug – if you were a dragon there would be steam coming out your nose for sure. “But like I thaid,” he continues quickly. “I wathn’t even awake and the wireth make my pthi practically unnotithable, tho I wath never in any danger, becauthe I know what you’re thinking-”

“If you’re such a fucking miraculously talented mind reader, why didn’t you think to warn me about this before I left?” Sollux’s wincing is a sign that you’re yelling too loud for the thin wooden walls and maybe you’re also gripping his hair a little too tight to be pale, but in your current opinion he absolutely fucking deserves it. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have left _at all_! I would have stayed and protected you because that’s what Moirails do!”

“KK-” He wraps his fingers around your wrist, so you let go and grab him by the shoulders instead.

“They protect each other, and, and they don’t keep secrets, and they don’t ever fucking leave each other, not _ever_ – you understand, you pitiful shitstain of a Troll?”

You can’t tell if Sollux is nodding because you’ve kind of started shaking him like that’ll make the message sink in this time, but it makes you feel a little better that he isn’t arguing back.

“I know I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite and I deserve to be used as an ass-wipe by every other decent Moirail on the planet, but if I’d known I- if I’d just _known_ , Sollux…” You trail off when you realise that you’re crying, and release your Moirail’s shoulders to wipe your face with an undignified sniff-sob and a wavering breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about the officers? Or about you needing these, these _wires_ , or whatever?”

Sollux chews his lip, eyes on the floor. Then brings his hands up like he’s going to make some big statement. Then drops them into his lap with a defeated huff, finally making eye contact with you.

“Becauthe I’m not a kid anymore,” he says it so bluntly, without a hint of anger or sarcasm, or anything except the voice of a tired Troll with a lisp that you secretly hope he never loses. “I’m _twelve thweepth old_ , KK; jutht like you, and Kanaya, and TZ, and everyone elthe – and if you can handle yourthelf ath a blood mutant with Godth know how many bountieth on your thkull, I can handle being an off-the-radar pthionic working undercover ath a mechanic.”

It hits you hard then, just how much things have changed. You’re not just two mutants clinging to each other whilst you hide, pretending that it’s all a game and you’re the brave heroes who are going to escape to fame and glory. You’re not six-sweep-olds watching Trolls get taken away from the town and wondering why they don’t fight back. You’re adults, in some limbo between criminals and exiles, where the empire doesn’t really know where you are and half the time your friends don’t either.

“I’m sorry,” you say hoarsely, taking Sollux’s hand in yours and feeling almost sick with relief when he squeezes your fingers tight. “I just keep having these moments where I think that maybe, just maybe, we’re somewhere remotely close to being safe, but then some bullshit comes along and ruins everything and my pan goes into panic mode, formulating escape plans and cover stories, what I’d say to those bastard Highbloods if they ever wrangled me into the gallows.”

“I know,” he sends a comforting fizzle of static into your hand. “And I’m thure you’d have thome rambling, mathterfully eloquent thpeech that Kankri would be proud of if that ever happened.”

You snort, but somehow, it’s like a weight has lifted, just a little.

“But we can’t worry about that forever – I didn’t get caught, and ath long ath he doethn’t turn out to be a fucking two-timing prick, Ampora ith going to keep paying off every thingle piethe of copper you’re ever worth becauthe he’d be more of an idiot than I thought if he let you go.”

Looking away does nothing to hide your blush, but it fulfils your pan’s ridiculous instinct of “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” so you’re able to resist crying at how fucking sweet and smart your Moirail is. Sollux is the reasonable one for once – someone call the Juggalos because you’ve got a miracle on your hands.

Then your mind wanders to Eridan and oh… Oh God, you haven’t told anyone other than Terezi yet, and she only knows because if anyone can get a secret out of you by just existing, it’s her.

Terezi never seems that bothered about anything, but her face, her face said it all even before she spoke.

 _“This is bad, Karkat_.”

You’d wanted to yell at her, say you _know_ it’s bad, but you just nodded.

One of the most egotistical, self-serving, boot-licking assholes in the whole imperial regiment knows the location of the largest pirate hideout this side of the polar boarders. He hasn’t told anyone yet, evidently, otherwise everyone would know by now. But he could. It doesn’t even matter that you’re his Kismesis and it would put you in danger; he’d probably get enough credit for the whole thing to take you as a prisoner for himself.

Terezi’s right.

This is bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this took a while, huh?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed regardless!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been pondering piratestuck for a while, so when I had the idea to combine it with my desire to test out blackrom erikar, I tried it out. Turns out it's really fun and what was supposed to be a drabble kinda got out of hand, but oh well.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, kudos, bookmarks and comments are always appreciated, and have a good night or day my dear reader ~
> 
> I have a tumblr! Feel free to pop by to ask questions or even just to chat - slavetomykeyboard.tumblr.com


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